


She could not live upon the Past

by middlemarch



Series: Mercy March [7]
Category: Little Women - Louisa May Alcott, Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott, Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Evening, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Jealousy, Marriage, Orchard House, Plumfield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 09:39:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7503357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evening at Orchard House, the convergence of the past and the present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She could not live upon the Past

The days were growing longer and it was still light at seven o’clock, but Friedrich could see his wife was flagging. Jo had been sitting next to her mother and Meg, but Mrs. March had left the parlor, he thought to fetch something; now Jo was listening to Meg, but he could see the shadows under her eyes and the way she rested her cheek against her palm told him her head was heavy. The elder Marches had invited their daughters for tea and dessert after dinner and then they’d all retired to the parlor where they sat for quiet conversation. It was quite a pleasant room, everything attractively arranged, nothing gaudy, only fine craftsmanship apparent in the furnishings and a personal aspect in every small objet or bric-a-brac. A small sculpture of a young girl’s head, the profile delicately modeled, sat on the mantle—this was some of Amy’s work and a pair of embroidered pillows nestled in each corner of the sofa, lately a gift from Meg. 

Jo’s work was not readily apparent; she did not share much of her serious writing with her family and none of them had been present earlier in the day to see the Plumfield children’s performance of her latest theatrical, “The Piratical Adventures of Captain Cadwalader and Gareth, the Cabin Boy: The Rescue of Princess Floridita.” It had had three curtain calls and the actors had rejoiced in their dessert of almond cakes almost as much as the noisy swashbuckling that had stoked their already hearty appetites. He and Jo had clapped loudly at each child’s carefully considered monologue and Jo had clapped her hand to her mouth to muffle her sudden laughter when Nan placed Tommy’s errant cotton-wool beard on his shoulder, as an epaulet Friedrich had thought until Nan had announced, hardly sotto voce, “What a nice nest for his parrot, Lady Primrose!”

Now he saw the evidence of the long day and the broken night that had preceded it. Jo still struggled with her pregnancy, though her complaints appeared to be primarily physical these days; she had seemed to have a greater degree of equanimity and had started to talk with him about where they might put a cradle. But she was still ill most days and had nearly fainted again earlier in the week. He was trying to follow the Fosters’ kind and practical advice and plied Jo with little meals, encouraged her to rest after lunch and walked with her in the garden when the day was fair. Mrs. Foster had suggested Jo would begin to rally as the New England spring strengthened, but it was only mid-April and many of the trees held only buds, no blossom. Emil had woken them in the night with his cries, quite unusually. There had been a confession of a nightmare and how much he missed his mother following an unsuccessful attempt at a sailor’s stoicism. Their nephew had settled with a prayer in German and ruffling of his blond curls, colorless in the moonlight, but Jo had been up for the next hour, retching with nausea. 

He had done what little he could, wiped her face with a cool cloth and buttressed her with his chest; he’d marveled at her, her strength and her trust as she lay back in his arms, the curve of her cheek so pale against her loosened night plait, the shadow at the neck of her nightdress. Her dear face had grown thinner the past several weeks but he had begun to see the rest of her, now concealed within the billowing yards of muslin, roundly ripening. She had been too much in need of her rest for him to tell her how lovely he found her changing form, to whisper how he desired her when they retired or in the first light of morning when the students still slept in the dormitories of the third floor. Tonight was no different—he must escort her home and get her tucked into bed with a cup of fresh milk and perhaps a piece of young Frau Hummel’s _Bienenstich_. She often did better, slept more soundly, when she had eaten such a little meal and he never minded the crumbs.

“Jo, _Liebchen_ , I think we must take our leave now,” he said. Meg patted her hand and nodded a little. Jo had told her their news and she had been warmly pleased and quite solicitous. He and Meg got along quite well as he found many books to discuss with her thoughtful husband and was more than willing to roll about on the rugs with her children, but was also well-disposed to tell Meg herself tales of Berlin and New York, the brief sojourns he’d had to Vienna and Bonn, the ocean voyage from the Old to the New World. It was then he saw the greatest resemblance to his Jo, with Meg’s soft brown eyes bright with curiosity and her plentiful questions about the styles and manners of the men and women, the varieties of shops and entertainments. 

He had first thought Meg a bit flighty, but then had begun to see she only wished to people her mind more accurately, to paint the wide thoroughfares lit by lanterns and full of carriages within her imagination, vivid color and detail to set against the wholesome but simple cottage she lived in, her small circle of family and church completely familiar. There was very little extra in her frugal household, as at Plumfield, and what there was went to her children; their satchels always held a new book with colorful pictures and they were the most finely dressed students at Plumfield, but Meg only changed one lace collar for another and John Brooke had had the same broadcloth coat since they’d married Meg had once said. Friedrich thought Meg wore lace caps instead of a pretty bonnet because she might easily make her own cap and could not afford a new bonnet every year.

“Must we, Fritz? Meg has been telling me such news, all sorts of things really. Do you think we might not stay another hour?” Jo asked. Her voice tried to wheedle, but he heard the catch in it. Amy and her husband, across the room, continued a conversation he heard only in tones, not words; they were easy with each other and there was an occasional trilling laugh from Jo’s sister. The evening light touched on Amy’s hair, always her most striking feature, and glanced off the gold earrings she wore, the elegant brooch at her throat.

“I think not. I will take all the morning classes together if thee wishes, so thou might visit again with Meg tomorrow, but it is late,” he replied.

“Truly?” Jo tried again, but her heart was not in it. He thought that before long, there would be a very small child with the same grey eyes asking him the same thing, prefaced with “Papa” and finished with a tremendous yawn.

“Yes, _Liebchen_. Thou might like to bid thy mother and father good night—I will collect thy wrap and wait for thee at the front door,” he said. Margarethe (he could not call her Marmee and she found Mrs. March too formal in the family circle) would not mind only saying good night to Jo; she would not wish to prolong their departure. It had only been a small family party and Reverend March had retired early, recovering slowly from a bronchial infection that had plagued him throughout the winter. John Brooke had stayed at home with his children and he’d thought Amy and her husband were so engaged in their conversation, he and Jo might slip out. Jo had not told Amy yet of the child; her younger sister had been married for several years but had not managed to carry a baby to term and the entire family guarded her carefully against anything they thought might wound her. Friedrich had not thought either of the Laurences had paid any attention to the quiet exchange and he’d hope to bid them a brief adieu on Jo’s behalf. 

He waited until he saw Jo walk up the stairs to her mother before he went over and touched Amy lightly on the shoulder. Even among her closest family, in the room where she had once sprawled before the fire, a clothespin on her nose and paint smudging every finger (as Jo had told him), Amy was richly dressed in a silk dress the color of a camellia, a lace shawl modishly draped about her. They were not close; he was too old and she too young, separated by wealth and endeavors, and the mutual sadness they had from losses they were reluctant to share did not draw them together. Amy was content to accept his hand upon her shoulder and a tilt of his head to indicate he and Jo were leaving.

Theodore Laurence was not. He was more easily happy than content, at least when Friedrich was near and sometimes, Friedrich could not help the uncharitable thought that the younger man was greedy. For he had married the youngest March daughter but still seemed to wish to come first with Josephine. Friedrich could tell that he had been much-indulged. Meg would say softly, “Oh, Laurie!” and his wife, “My lord, if you please.” His Jo would cry, “Teddy! You splendid, silly man!” and Laurence would preen a little. He was not thus with the elder Marches nor with John Brooke; then he was a man Friedrich could respect and enjoy, the only real cosmopolitan among them, a man of culture and taste if not quite the degree of philosophical depth that Friedrich preferred in a companion.

Tonight, it had been only the younger March women in the room for some time and so Laurence was not the man Friedrich admired. He stood up, abruptly, and exclaimed,

“She didn’t want to leave yet! I can’t see why she must go so soon.”

Friedrich walked towards the door and picked up Jo’s simple wrap. It was not the elegant paisley shawl he wished her to have, but she had said she’d rather fix the grape arbor first “than spend money on only my own vanity—my grey shawl does well enough, Fritz!” 

Laurence had followed him and persisted, more forceful than his usual manner.

“Really, Professor, can’t you let your wife had a bit of fun? She’s not meant to be a constant drudge, the dry headmistress. She wants liveliness and humor, even you must see that.”

“I think it is best we go home and that is enough,” he replied calmly.

“I can’t see how it is best for her! She has always loved good conversation, wit and amusement, a jolly time. Perhaps you don’t understand that about her, you haven’t known her so long as we have.” Friedrich knew Laurence was challenging him and he knew he ought not rise to it. 

Jo would have laughed right in Theodore Laurence’s darkly handsome face and would assume her husband would be measured and serene, unbothered by the younger man’s provocation. Friedrich could not help thinking of Jo’s drawn face as she thanked him in the night for caring for her, or how she had joined Lena Hummel in the kitchen in the morning to prepare the children’s breakfast, tousling Emil’s hair just a little as she served him. He thought of her face in sleep and how she smiled a little when he pulled her to him and rested his hand on her belly, low, where the child was. He thought of the grey wrap and the grape arbor and the book she worked on in the evenings if all the other work was done and how her hair looked like an autumn leaf in the lamplight.

“Mr. Laurence, I grant that you may have known Jo March better than I do, longer than I did. But I know Josephine Bhaer best and God Himself has seen that is the truth.” He paused then, to let Laurence hear him and accept he would not brook any more interference. There was a moment when Friedrich saw the crestfallen Laurie of Jo’s childhood stories. It had been a long time since anyone would have seen the boy Fritz in Friedrich’s own dark eyes. Jo was starting to come down the steps and he could hear her mother’s voice fading.

“I will take her home to our house now without any further interruption. You are always welcome to call at Plumfield—she could do with some music if you will manage the piano. It is not quite in tune, I think” he finished, offering a small smile, no more than the man deserved. 

Jo was beside him now and gave her brother-in-law a quick kiss on the cheek with a subdued “G’night, dear Teddy.” She turned her back to him, entirely unselfconscious, and Friedrich put the wrap around her narrow shoulders and led her from Orchard House. It was past time to go home; the Evening Star was getting brighter against the deepening night and Jo stumbled a little beside him until he took her arm more firmly in his. Her smile up at him was brief, broken by the yawn she could not longer trouble herself to stop. He might have to feed her the pastry himself once she lay in their bed, a task he would relish.

**Author's Note:**

> So, writing in Little Women and not writing some kind of confrontation between Laurie and Fritz seems like a waste. I know there are several stories about Jo getting involved with Laurie, either AU's "correcting" the original story or as future divergences (i.e., Fritz and Amy die, Jo and Laurie have an affair). I am not terrifically interested in Jo & Laurie as a romantic couple as I find Fritz a far more interesting partner for Jo but I feel like there would be a period of adjustment for all of them around the time of Jo's marriage. The story suggests I am not fond of Amy-- I have never forgiven her for burning Jo's book. I do feel like I'll write something about Amy in the future, but I'm more intrigued by the idea that Meg is not a domestic goddess only. The Fosters are appearing courtesy of the letter series I am also writing. I have brought young Mrs. Hummel (Lena) back to cook for Plumfield as well as off-screen cameos by some of the Plumfield young fry; I openly admit I've kind of scrambled the time line as Nan and Tommy aren't at Plumfield yet, but who can resist those two?
> 
> The title is Emily Dickinson, of course. 
> 
> Bienenstitch is a German pastry that means "bee sting."


End file.
